


The Verdant Vaulted Cathedral of their Worship

by nonbinaryspock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, every time i write them it gets slightly more romantic lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 16:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19232941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonbinaryspock/pseuds/nonbinaryspock
Summary: A prompt I answered over on my tumblr. Gays in a garden!





	The Verdant Vaulted Cathedral of their Worship

Crowley leans against the railing encircling the wide, shallow pool at the center of the botanical garden. He watches lily pads float lazily by, their pale pink and yellow flowers standing out against the dark water. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Aziraphale puttering around on the other side of the greenhouse, cooing indistinctly over a towering fern near one of the high, glass walls. He trails his fingertips lightly over its outstretched leaves.

“You know Crowley,” Aziraphale says brightly, “I think these plants just might give yours a run for their money. This is some of the loveliest greenery I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.”

“Hm,” Crowley hums absently, turning his head ever so slightly to look at Aziraphale. “They are rather nice, though I can’t speak to how… disciplined they are.” He eyes a dark spot near the edge of one of the lily pads. “But, you can’t expect the people tending to a massive garden like this to give the plants the level of individual attention that _mine_ receive.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

He straightens up, strolling casually over to Aziraphale. He peers over the angel’s shoulder, looking more at his soft, stubby fingers than at the actual plant. “Remind you of anything?” he murmurs, his lips hardly an inch away from Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale gives Crowley a look. “Not every garden can be Eden, you know,” he chides, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me it doesn’t take you back to the good old days at least a little.”

“I suppose this garden reminds me of The Garden as much as any bookshop reminds me of My Bookshop,” he concedes, sidestepping away from Crowley to examine a group of hanging plants. “It’s just a bit too… manufactured to _really_ feel like Eden.”

He has a point. Despite the lush, vaguely tropical plants surrounding them, the greenhouse lacks the liveliness that Eden had. Everything is too manicured, too controlled, too static. The sloping greenhouse walls around them make the whole space feel like a terrarium or a new age-y church more than anything else. He clicks his tongue disappointedly. “They just don’t make gardens like they used to,” he mutters.

“Don’t make anything like they used to, really.”

Crowley doesn’t reply. He goes back to the edge of the pond, vaulting easily over the railing and landing—albeit a little unsteadily—on one of the lily pads. It sinks beneath the surface slightly, water lapping at the bottom of his shoes, but otherwise holds his weight. He steps onto another lily pad, slowly making his way across the water.

“After we’re through here we should go see the—” Aziraphale cuts himself off, turning in time to see Crowley’s little balancing act. He shoots a disapproving look at him. “Come out of there,” he says, speaking much like a parent attempting to wrangle an unusually precocious child.

Crowley extends a hand to Aziraphale. “Join me.”

He shakes his head. “You’re going to get soaked if you keep on like that.”

He shrugs. “A little water never hurt anyone.”

“You know just as well as I do that that’s _not_ true.”

Crowley takes his sunglasses off, tucking them into the breast pocket of his jacket. He bats his eyelashes innocently. “Come on,” he coaxes, arm still outstretched to the angel. “Promise I won’t let you fall in.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

He lifts his free hand to cup one of his ears. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

“I _said_ you can’t just make eyes at me and expect me to do whatever you ask,” he replies snippily.

“Well, it’s worked nearly every other time I’ve tried,” Crowley says. “Seems like my odds are pretty good.”

Aziraphale huffs, reluctantly shrugging off his coat. He folds it neatly, setting it on the ground a safe distance away from the pool. Hesitantly, he approaches the railing, climbing over it with some difficulty. “If I fall in, I will never let you hear the end of it,” he grumbles. “And it’ll be on _you_ to miracle me dry again.”

“You’re not going to fall.”

Aziraphale stretches out one leg, testing the sturdiness of the nearest pad with his foot. He seems doubtful as to its structural integrity, but steps onto it nevertheless. The pad remains stable, holding Aziraphale up as if he weighed nothing at all.

“See?” Crowley murmurs. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Oh, hush.” He continues taking cautious little steps across the large, round leaves until he finally reaches Crowley on the other side. “Happy?”

“Delighted.” He takes Aziraphale’s hand gently into his own, hoping to ease some of his worries about falling into the pond.

Aziraphale still looks thoroughly displeased, but doesn’t protest. “Well, now what?”

Crowley gives Aziraphale’s hand a slight tug, pulling him and the lily pad just a little closer. “What would you like?”

“I’d _like_ to be on dry land.” When met with Crowley’s unblinking stare he sighs and adds, “Some music might be nice? Something… sweet.”

Crowley snaps his fingers. An old fashioned gramophone in absolutely pristine condition appears a few feet away from the pond. The first few notes of Chopin’s Nocturne begin to play. “How’s that?”

This earns him a lovely little smile from Aziraphale. “Not the type of sweet I was imagining, but—”

“I could change it, if—”

“Don’t change it.” He gives Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “I love this piece.”

Without thinking, Crowley raises Aziraphale’s hand to his lips. He presses a quick kiss against the angel’s knuckles, glancing up at him through his lashes to gauge his reaction.

Aziraphale’s round cheeks flush ever so slightly and he looks away. “Crowley…”

“Aziraphale,” he says, copying his tone. Feeling bold, he dares to deliver a second kiss to the back of Aziraphale’s palm.

“Someone could _see_ ,” he whispers, eyes darting nervously around the greenhouse.

“There’s no one here.” He had made sure of that.

“But Crowley—”

He turns Aziraphale’s hand over, kissing the inside of his wrist. “If you want me to stop, tell me to stop.”

Aziraphale says nothing. Crowley grins to himself, victorious.


End file.
